


Commercial Value

by Arsenic, arsenicarcher (Arsenic)



Series: 14 Valentines [18]
Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/arsenicarcher
Summary: Written for 14v 2011 for the theme "sexuality."





	Commercial Value

For all his practicality, his cleverness in getting them in and out of situations, Fiona wonders if Michael ever thinks about the fact that he’s never had his body put on display for the sake of culling information, thumbing ID, whatever. Fiona knows for a fact that it would have worked on a few occasions. She’s always known when someone else was looking at Michael.

Fiona never used to mind with the boys back home. There was no reason to. A girl who wanted to fight the Brits had to be a tricky, ever-shifting balance between good Catholic girl, one-of-the-boys, and always up for a good time. Fiona had wanted out of her house and had wanted the British out of it too, so she’d walked that tightrope and never fallen. But home was home. It was a place where there were certain set rules and boundaries and they rarely, if ever changed.

Michael, for all that he was part of her world, was not, and never had been part of _that_ world, and fair or not, she often found herself expecting better of him. She hated it when he disappointed her.

*

Most of the time, Fiona can more than take care of herself and will gladly shoot anyone who suggests otherwise—in the scrotum. What pisses her off more than anything at the moment—and given that she’s tied in knots she can’t extricate herself from in the mark’s dank-ass cellar, that’s saying something—is that she got herself into this mess. Michael had been busy playing world-savior and she figured a job on the side would be just the thing she needed to distract herself. She even ignored the inner-voice that reminded her it had been a long time since she’s pulled off a job by herself. She’s a team player, always has been, really.

The plan was a basic seduce-and-cut-loose. It would have worked, too, except she’d missed the part where her mark doesn’t like to share his toys with others. And has some serious muscle backing him to make sure he doesn’t have to.

His guys didn’t tie her legs, not wanting to try and get close enough again, but honestly, more the fool them. Her legs are often her greatest weapon, whether she’s using them to get people to look, or to kill.

Her mark is smart—he sends in his muscle before him, and they’re packing. But guns are only as good as the hands they’re in, and Fiona has both of them disarmed within the first five seconds of the confrontation. The first five seconds are often the most important.

Admittedly, the fact that she catches one of them hard enough to put him into unconsciousness, that’s just some luck coming due. The other one she goes for the balls. She had been hoping to have gotten herself entirely free of the knots when they came in, but it’s going to take a little while longer, and she keeps on her guard. Finally, she slips free, her arms a mess of rope-burn and splinters, but she’s good to go.

She makes sure the second guy is out, grabs both their guns, finds the nearest thing to throw at the only window in the place and crawls out, taking more than a few shards of glass with her. When she gets to the main road, she’s abruptly reminded that hot is hot—guys will stop for her even looking like she’s just survived Chernobyl. She says a brief Hail Mary for her legs, and gets in the passenger side of the fifty-something married man (if the ring is anything to go by) who stops for her.

*

She’s cleaned up and mostly fine by the time she stops by Michael’s, but he notices. Of course he notices, he always notices the shit he thinks is important. He’s in front of her instantly, hand on her face where there’s a bruise, a small cut by her ear. “Fi, what the—“

“Job gone bad,” she says casually, and strolls past him. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She wants some yogurt.

“We’re not on a job right now.”

“We’re not, no.” She opens the fridge. Strawberry or banana?

“Fi—“

“Shut up, Michael.”

“We—“

She turns to him, then. “My body isn’t just yours to barter. I get to use it for my purposes as well.”

In the silence, she realizes she hadn’t meant to say that. They weren’t really talking about how the job was run, just about Michael’s inability to let her do anything without backup. Fuck. Strawberry. She takes the yogurt and shoves a spoonful of it in her mouth.

After a long moment, Michael comes and sits at the counter. Softly, even, he asks, “You know that if you ever said no—to any of it—you know that would be it, right? I wouldn’t—“

“You do shit I say no to all the time,” she points out.

He blinks in accession. Then he says, “But not that. You say no, the answer is no.”

The worst part is, as he says it, she believes him. She doesn’t want to, she wants to hold on to her righteous anger. She just keeps eating. He asks, “Are-- you okay?”

Fiona swallows. “Bumps and bruises.”

Michael reaches out and traces one low on her arm. “I have some Tylenol.”

It does what he means it to—gets her to laugh. “I’ll survive.”

“Good.”


End file.
